


The Sixteen Years Later Affair

by lasergirl



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl





	The Sixteen Years Later Affair

_**Man From U.N.C.L.E. - The Sixteen Years Later Affair**_  
**Title:** The Sixteen Years Later Affair  
**Fandom:** The Man From U.N.C.L.E.  
**Rating:** PG (talk of m/m stuff, not explicit)  
**Prompts:** dinner, remembering, love.  
**Warnings:** Based mildly on the events of the Return of the Man from U.N.C.L.E. movie, which is terrible. In this version of events, Illya chose not to return to the field and Napoleon carried out the assignment on his own. Possibly a much wiser decision that what actually happened in the movie.

**Notes:** This is the story I wrote for [](http://ashley-pitt.livejournal.com/profile)[**ashley_pitt**](http://ashley-pitt.livejournal.com/) for the 'Down The Chimney 4' Secret Agent Santa ficathon exchange at [](http://community.livejournal.com/muncle/profile)[**muncle**](http://community.livejournal.com/muncle/) this year. Apparently I tried to get as far away from the actual prompts as possible. It's the first story I've written in this fandom that's actually been finished, and first story that I've finished in quite a while anyway. Thanks to [](http://mayphoenix.livejournal.com/profile)[**mayphoenix**](http://mayphoenix.livejournal.com/) for beta reading it, and to [](http://xjestx.livejournal.com/profile)[**xjestx**](http://xjestx.livejournal.com/) for her continuous encouragement (and mocking).

Illya scanned the restaurant automatically when he arrived. There was no sign of Napoleon. It wasn't like him to be late. No, Illya stopped himself. It was exactly like the Napoleon he had known. Punctuality had always been second to a pretty girl. At least there was something that hadn't changed.

"Good evening, sir." The maître d' slid his finger down the list of names in his book. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Kuryakin," Illya supplied.

The maître d' smiled. "Party of two. Your companion will be joining you shortly?"

"He'd better." The years had softened Illya's demeanour a little, but no amount of time could completely erase his pessimism.

"Then perhaps you would care for the wine menu," the maître d' suggested smoothly, ushering Illya to his table.

"No menu," Illya said sharply. "Just a bottle of the house red, if you don't mind. And some bread. If I'm to be kept waiting at least I won't starve."

"Very good, sir." The maître d' whisked away to pass the requests to a waiter, and Illya brooded.

Napoleon might have decided not to come. There could be any number of reasons why not. He was under no obligation, after all. They had been partners once, but that was many years ago and relationships and priorities changed. If Illya's refusal to join him in the field had been any indication of how their relationship had changed... well, he'd be foolish to expect that his old friend would just come running back.

The bread and wine arrived and he tore into the small loaf savagely. This wasn't an attempt to recapture the relationship they'd had so many years ago, or at least that was what Illya had told himself when he'd finally dialed Napoleon's number. He was surprised when Napoleon had answered the phone, sounding weary and pained. He didn't turn down the dinner invitation, either.

The wine was sour on his tongue, but that was fitting, too. Napoleon hadn't given any excuses at the time, hadn't hesitated when Illya suggested they meet. The only reluctance, it seemed, had been on Illya's part. He didn't want to discover that his doubts had been well-founded.

His black thoughts were interrupted by a soft drawl of, "Didn't mean to be so late," and he looked up and Napoleon was there.

"Please, sit down." Illya forgot his bile and half-rose as Napoleon slid into the chair opposite, and then they were face to face, staring down the long passage of time. "You're looking well."

Napoleon smiled, "Well, the years haven't been as kind as I'd hoped." There was grey at his temples and Illya had noticed a slight stiffness in one leg. Was that from the winter chill, or a remnant of an old injury? If it was the former, Napoleon seemed unaware of it. "How's the fashion business?"

"I shall have to go to Paris," Illya said bitterly. "The Couture collection presents in January. Of course I am expected to attend."

"Well, I have to admit that in the realm of possibilities, I never would have dreamed you'd end up as a fashion designer," Napoleon said admiringly. "Especially a successful one."

"Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy..." There was a silent pause, until Illya broke into a sharp, humorless little smile. "It's your fault, you know. I suppose I should thank you for all those times I had to pretend to be a dressmaker or a hairdresser or some other ridiculous identity."

The waiter materialized with their menus and a water carafe, breaking their fragile cease-fire. "Would you care for anything to drink, sir?" He filled their glasses, the ice cubes tinkling in the sudden silence.

"Soda and lime," Napoleon said hurriedly, examining the entrées with conspicuous intensity. The waiter nodded and departed again.

"You won't have a glass of wine?" Illya offered his bottle. "It's early still."

"Oh, I... ahem... gave it up," muttered Napoleon.

"Wine?"

"Alcohol in general, as a matter of fact." Napoleon glanced across the shield of his menu and for a second Illya saw something stirring in his dark eyes. "Sober five years, three months. Since this is the first time we've sat down together in quite a while, I'll have to forgive you."

"That doesn't change much," Illya said tersely. He drained his glass in one mouthful and poured himself another. Wine slopped over the rim and blossomed on the tablecloth. "I expected this might be quite painful. I'm so glad you're upholding my expectations."

Napoleon sighed. "Listen, Illya, what happened... I want to put it behind us. It was no business of mine to try and drag you back."

"It's good to know you can still apologize without saying you're sorry," Illya sniffed, rubbing his wrist. "For the record, if you had asked me to go with you instead of carting around some junior Boy Scout agent, I might have said 'yes.' And showing me those photos of Janus when you knew bloody well what happened in Yugoslavia, well... I wouldn't have hit you quite as hard. I have post-traumatic osteoarthritis in this hand and it hurt quite a lot."

Napoleon chuckled. "If that was an apology then we're even now, aren't we?"

"I suppose we are." Illya allowed himself a slight smile as he opened his own menu. "I've heard the swordfish here is impeccable."

With the tension eased, they gave their orders to the waiter and were halfway through recollections of Geisha girls and living mummies by the time the food arrived. Illya was more than halfway through his bottle of wine. Napoleon ordered another soda.

"And the look on your face when I cut you out of those bandages," Napoleon laughed, "You would have thought I was the last human being on earth."

Illya speared his snowpeas with a sharp jab and crunched them between his teeth. "It always amazed me how many science labs came equipped with shackles in those days," he mused. "They're hardly on the recommended supply lists."

"It's funny, but I haven't talked about this stuff with anyone in so long," Napoleon mused. "It's almost like it never happened. Don't you miss it sometimes?"

"Not being captured," Illya said sourly, then blurted out, "The friendship."

Napoleon shook his head and said softly, "Being sentimental isn't a character flaw, you know."

"Why should I be sentimental? Those were the most violent years of my life. I was shot, stabbed, clubbed, poisoned, drowned. I spent a lot of that time in compromising situations, occasionally wearing very little clothing, continuously in peril-"

"-As did I."

"But you were the one who left, Napoleon. I remained in the employ of U.N.C.L.E. for ten years after I removed myself from the field. When you left, you threw everyone for a loop. They assumed - I suppose I did as well - that you would take over in Waverly's place. Quite a shock when you didn't."

Napoleon poked his swordfish thoughtfully with a fork. "Expectations are never fulfilled by reality."

"You got cold feet."

"In a way, I did," Napoleon admitted. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and then met Illya's eyes. "U.N.C.L.E. puts hundreds of its agents in harm's way every day. When we were responsible for our own well being, that was one thing. Protecting thousands of people, looking out for their health and welfare and safety, 365 days a year? Scotch can help with that fear, but only a little. After a while you just need out. Waverly knew what I wanted."

Illya nodded in understanding. There had been rumors at Napoleon's sudden departure, but Waverly had insisted no-one was to track him down for any reason. And if Waverly had known where Napoleon was when he died, he never said. "But why computers?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Most of them don't try to kill you. And the drinks are free at sales conventions."

The little bit of wine-induced happiness in Illya's body tipped over into guilt. He was that callous, swilling wine in the presence of an old friend who probably found the entire thing distasteful. He tried to reach for his glass nonchalantly, but his hand was shaking. The glass toppled against the nearly-empty bottle and shattered, sending a wave of red over the tablecloth. He leaped up apologetically, reaching for the slivers of glass that had been swept along in the flood.

"No, no, don't touch it." Napoleon caught his arthritic wrist with one hand and just held it, frozen in midair. Despite the twinge of pain, Illya met his steady gaze. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Illya's mouth was suddenly dry, the knot in his stomach heavy as lead. "I wanted to find you but Waverly said to let you go," he said in a rush. "He wasn't well towards the end, he kept hoping you'd come back. That was over five years ago."

"Five years, three months," Napoleon said evenly. He released his grip on Illya's wrist. "I asked him to let me go. I suppose he knew me better than I knew myself. I did come back eventually, it just took fifteen years."

Illya slumped back into his chair. "I had no idea." He shook his head. The drinking, the mysterious disappearance... "After everything we went through. I ruined everything. I'm such an ass."

"Then we're even, Illya," Napoleon said evenly, "I didn't want U.N.C.L.E. to bring you back to active status on the Sepheran Affair, you seemed quite happy with your frocks. It was petty of me to taunt you with Janus, and I'm glad you had the sense to turn me down."

Illya closed his eyes and tamed his breath. "I should have gone with you. I should have."

"What's done is done, Illya, I can't change the past. I don't think I'd want to. But there is one thing I would like to change."

Illya was sullen. "What's that?"

"Dessert. There's a little diner near my place that makes the best cheesecake. I'll buy?"

"I can't believe that's how you're ending it, Napoleon," Illya grumbled.

"Who said the conversation was over?" Napoleon shot him a sly wink. "They do takeaway."

**

They were riding up in the elevator to Napoleon's apartment, takeaway containers crackling in a plastic bag, when Illya turned to him.

"I suppose it's too late to enquire as to your intentions."

"Why, is it that obvious?" Napoleon's eyebrows went up in an exaggerated expression of surprise. "We agreed on dessert. Did I miss something?"

Illya made a face and tapped the mirrored wall of the elevator. "Your processes are about as unmistakable as this two-way glass, I'm afraid. From the correct angle, you're practically transparent."

"Ah." Napoleon shrugged, and the elevator shivered to a stop. "At least do me the courtesy of going along with it, will you? I don't entertain many old friends these days."

Illya was going to add 'mostly because they're all dead,' to qualify Napoleon's statement, but saw he was covering a boyish blush of colour with feigned indifference and kept his observation to himself. Instead, he fell into step slightly behind Napoleon, gauging his step and watching the emotions play out through his body language.

First of all, yes, Illya had been correct in pinpointing the stiffness when Napoleon had sat down at the restaurant. He wasn't in pain, not because of the weather, so it was most likely an old injury. How old he couldn't pinpoint precisely, not without further observation.

And secondly, Napoleon's intentions were anything but honourable: Illya had seen that rakish gleam in his eye before, and that subtle broadening of his shoulders. Women responded to it with the most enthusiasm but there had been a fair share of men who also found it appealing.

They paused at the door, heavy painted wood with a number plate reading 1102, and Napoleon passed the plastic bag of desserts to Illya. When the door swung open, Illya looked around in surprise.

"My, you have changed," he said, "It's so-" Words failed him. He remembered Napoleon's apartment from their days with U.N.C.L.E. and it had been nothing quite as...

"Domestic?" Napoleon supplied.

"I was thinking 'spinster' actually."

"Don't look too closely, my maiden aunt left it to me in her will and I haven't the heart to redecorate the sitting room yet. Is it really that bad?"

"I quite like doilies and tuberoses," Illya deadpanned.

Napoleon looked at his surly expression and chuckled. "The kitchen, then?"

"Please."

The kitchen was more masculine, dark slate and glass-fronted cabinets with artful lighting. Napoleon motioned to the small table with its severe, upright chairs.

"Just put the food there, I'll get plates. Did you want something more to drink?"

Still feeling ashamed of his earlier poor example, Illya shrugged. "Whatever you're having will be alright."

"You don't have to go dry around me, you know," Napoleon told him, "I can look after myself. There's a bar in the dining room."

On the wagon, but still keeping a stocked bar. Illya mused on that fact as he walked through to the dining room. There weren't a lot of personal touches, and if he hadn't known Napoleon so well he might have overlooked them. There was a proud photograph above the sideboard of a small yacht cresting an Atlantic wave. The helmsman's face was obscured by spray and foul weather gear, but by the stance alone he knew it was Napoleon. Illya smiled as he opened the glassware cabinet. He had spent quite a few nights aboard that boat, and even now the thought of the way Napoleon tacked her made his stomach twist a little. The picture was dated ten years ago. Did he still sail the Persang or had he traded up for something a little more civilized?

The bar was also a little more civilized that he'd expected though a little dusty, as if Napoleon hadn't entertained at home in a while. Still, there was a decent bottle of brandy standing there, and Illya took it out and wiped it off with his sleeve. He poured out a generous splash, and went to put the bottle back when he noticed an old photograph forgotten behind it. He plucked it out between two fingertips.

At first, he thought it was a snapshot of the two of them, from the Rivera or Greece or some other exotic location. But he looked closer and it was was Florida, and while one of the men was Napoleon, the other wasn't Illya. It looked like him, or at least the resemblance was eerily more than superficial. But the boy was young, barely twenty, and his blonde hair was unruly, mussed presumably by the hand of the man on his shoulder.

And there was Napoleon, leaning in close against the boy's shoulder. Illya presumed immediately they were lovers: friends did not sit that way, with their mouths half-open as if whispering in each others' ears. There was no grey in Napoleon's hair, but lines of harder living creased his mouth and forehead. A sweating drink was in his hand and inebriation showed in his eyes. Illya sucked on the brandy to cleanse the sour taste that came suddenly to his mouth.

And how many of these striplings had there been in the parade to Napoleon's bed? Knowing his old ways, Illya knew that just one or two had to be an aberration. He had always been attractive to men as well as women.

Well, Illya himself had succumbed to Napoleon's charms all those years ago. That's what came of sharing hotel rooms while they were working. If Waverly had kept his eye on his field agents and not on the bottom line, it might never have happened.

He had been surprised at first, when Napoleon kissed him, unexpectedly tender and reassuring. Until then, the thought hadn't really crossed his mind that such a notorious womanizer might even be interested in his own sex, let alone instigate events. Perhaps neither of them had expected to have grown so close to one another.

But no matter how it had happened, whether Napoleon leaned in first, or whether it had been the way Illya cocked his head when he folded down his newspaper, there it was: that steady, hot little push of tongue and lips, and before he realized it, Napoleon was pulling away. The hot breath was torn out of Illya's chest as he withdrew.

"What was that?"

"I, er-" One sign that Napoleon was acting on instinct was when his usually glib tongue failed him. This time, it was licking at the corner of his mouth. He looked sheepish. "Thought you wanted to."

"I don't recall indicating that I didn't," Illya said dryly, but he knew Napoleon could read the hint of humor in his words. "Though clearly, you also wanted to."

"Ah, it was a little scientific experiment. I was testing the waters to see what might happen."

Illya smiled, and shook his head. "Napoleon, you are a terrible scientist! Observation, hypothesis, experiment, conclusion. Extend the hypothesis."

Napoleon sighed dramatically. "This isn't a grade school science class. I can prove that a tadpole turns into a frog."

"Well, can you at least report on the result?" Illya laid the shield of his newspaper down completely, amused by the direction their conversation was taking.

"It was... pleasantly unexpected." Napoleon said, eyes sliding sideways. His thumb slipped to the corner of his mouth, tracing the faint line of fading moisture. "You?"

"There are so many variables in this sort of experiment," Illya replied, watching with amusement as Napoleon frowned. "Was the atmosphere controlled? Did you measure length of time, pressure, angle, attitude? Are the results externally visible? Does the subject have reporting bias?"

"Look, if you don't want to, just say it and stop attempting to run scientific circles around me."

And that had finally made Illya laugh, which stopped Napoleon turning away. "Don't be silly. If I hadn't enjoyed it, would I be sitting here bantering with you? I probably would have slapped you like one of your girlfriends." He waved the folded newspaper threateningly. "I still could, you know."

"Oh, no thank you," Napoleon said hurriedly, plucking the paper from Illya's hand. "I think I'd much rather... continue the experiment."

Illya had tilted his face up the second time, and it was infinitely more preferable.

A voice from the kitchen door brought Illya back to his thoughts, but he turned towards the sound without comprehending the words.

"Sorry I didn't hear you, Napoleon."

"I said, did you get lost in here? The place isn't that big." Napoleon smiled easily and leaned against the doorframe. "Or THRUSH could have captured you. Again."

Illya sighed and offered the photograph by way of explanation. Napoleon saw it, and although he stepped forward to take it from him, his face fell.

"I was just admiring the uncanny resemblance in this family photograph," said Illya, and Napoleon winced. Of all the things that he could have done, Illya didn't expect that, and he regretted it immediately. Napoleon never winced, even when Illya was digging a bullet out of his shoulder, with no anaesthetic, in a snow-cave in Finland. And here, in his own dining room it was completely foreign. "It's not important."

"It is, actually." Napoleon's face was strangely calm. "Bring your drink. There's dessert in the kitchen."

Shamed, Illya followed him meekly back into the slate and glass, carrying his snifter. The cheesecake waited for them on little square plates, garnished with a drizzle of chocolate.

"How you got that from takeout I have no idea."

"It's all in the presentation, Illya, surely you know that. Your prêt-à-porter collection from spring of last year? Minimalist, simple lines and neutral palette, but presented with such striking models, and colour projection..."

Illya raised an eyebrow at him. "It was internationally panned."

"Now, you know that isn't completely true. Sales in Tokyo nearly single-handedly funded your foray into menswear the following season."

"I knew I recognized your tie," grumbled Illya, but he sat down at the table anyway. "And I can't believe you paid money for it. All you had to do was ask."

"It was, ah, a gift." Napoleon set a cube-shaped candle between them and snapped his lighter into flame. He dimmed the lights and joined Illya at the table.

"Is this strictly necessary?"

"Listen, Illya," Napoleon started, "I know we got off to a rough start, but this isn't what I'd planned at all. I want to explain." He put the damning photograph on the table between them, and it lay there, the glow of the candle burning over the face of the thin blond boy.

"I think you'd better."

"Well." Napoleon touched the photo with one finger and it rocked gently. "I was responsible for the whole thing. When you were assigned to Yugoslavia, Waverly forbid me from going. I wasn't well, didn't pass my firearms qualification that quarter. Instead, I took a bullet in the thigh during a routine investigation in the Port of Los Angeles. He said I was a liability and I agreed."

"I see." Illya carved off a forkful of cheesecake and let it fall into the river of chocolate like an iceberg. "And the boy?"

"I knew you blamed me for having to go on assignment with a different partner. And after the girl was killed, I couldn't... I couldn't apologize. I couldn't tell you the real reason Waverly banned me from overseas engagements." Napoleon took a breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. "I had to tell him about you and me."

"What?" Illya dropped his fork and it clattered against the china, cheesecake forgotten.

"I told him we'd been seeing each other."

"What does that have to do with the photograph, Napoleon?" Illya pinned it flat on the table with his fingertips. "This is from ten years ago, not fifteen, and he is barely legal as it is. Dare I even ask what you were thinking?"

It all came out in a rush then: "You would have hated me, hated what I'd become. I didn't want to be that way, but I couldn't stop. When I met Stephan in New Orleans, it wasn't what I intended, but I loved him because he reminded me of you, and -"

"- You have never said the word 'love' in your life, Napoleon," Illya said severely. "Please don't start saying it now."

"In the end, I left him because I couldn't stand myself." Napoleon put his forehead in his hands and closed his eyes. "Because I knew what you'd say."

"I think," Illya said gently, reaching across to pat Napoleon's arm, "I'd say that Stephan had good taste in men's neckwear. I can't blame you for that girl's death, and what happened in Yugoslavia is over."

Napoleon raised his head. "Do you know, I think that's the first positive thing I've heard you say about your fashion line all evening?"

"Do you know," retorted Illya with a smile, "that's the first time I have actually forgiven you?"

"Then we should spend more time together. I have all sorts of things I want you to forgive me for." Napoleon finally picked up his fork and went for the wedge of dessert on his plate.

"Those three points off my driving license when you sprained your ankle and made me drive during that car chase across Nevada?"

"When I invited you on that six-day cruise and it did nothing but rain and the bilge pump broke?"

"Sunburn in the Yucatan?"

"Volcano on Hawaii?"

"What about keeping me away from this glorious cheesecake with your continuous suffering?" Illya grinned. "You know it's been over an hour since I last ate."

"Ah, cheers, then." Napoleon raised his forkful of cheesecake and Illya mirrored him. They both smiled. "To old friends?"

"No," Illya corrected gently, "to the future."

END  


Questions? Comments? Feedback always appreciated.


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